


Otherworldly

by LadyMerlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Warning of Childhood Abuse!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:30:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sherlock feels like something from another World.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Otherworldly

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Otherworldly  
> Fandom: Sherlock BBC  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Harry Watson, Mr. and Mrs. Watson  
> Pairing: Holmes/Watson  
> Warnings: Child Abuse, Rape, Incest, Alcoholism, Fantastical Elements  
> Summary: There’s a few things that have made John who he is, which have made him do things he didn’t want to do. He’s just trying to make sense of it all, sometimes his life feels like a fairy tale.

__

_there’s no end, just the point where storytellers stop talking_

John Watson is a doctor, man of science, and of military background, raised in an honest-to-god lower-middle-class family in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. His father was a miner, and later a factory worker when the mines shut down, and his mother was a school teacher until she wasn’t. He’s very intelligent, more than people give him credit for, and hardworking and disciplined. He escaped to London before his elder sister managed to, and took her in as soon as he could while he was in med school. Life was never easy.

He knows (he knew, even then) better than to put his faith in a higher power when he called so many times, and no-one answered. But it’s a common psychological tendency of children who bear more stress than children should. Retreat and escapism, according to his psychology teachers in Barts.

Harry’s escape was alcohol. His was fantasy.

He started with Enid Blyton (like most kids did, really). But more than her books about adventures and mysteries and kids who spent their summers wandering desolate country-sides in twos and threes and fours and fives (read from his permanent corner in the public library, kept for him by the librarian who saw more than anyone else did), he loved her books of fairies and the otherworld.

He dreamt in fitful sleep, of people with green-tinted skin and pointed ears (like Spock) who would steal him away not only from his home, but from this world. He would give them something vital of his, that they wanted. His youth. His love. His life. His blood. And they’d rescue him from this place forever.

He didn’t understand where these dreams came from. Enid Blyton’s fairies were pink and happy and friendly. Her pixies danced in the moonlight and gnomes were grouchy do-gooders and good-witches used red-and-white spotted toadstools in magical cure-alls in exchange for flowers or cookies.

The library closest to his house was small, and old, and not really a place for kids, but he didn’t have much of a choice. While he was at home with Harry, she took the brunt of it all. But when she took to going to the biggest mall she could find with her friends and smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap beer, he climbed down the tree outside his bedroom window and went to the library.

When he ran out of children’s books, he picked up ancient, scholarly tomes of pagan worship in Britain before it was united. He delved into mythology and devoured books about all the pantheons he could find.

He found out that the creatures that haunted his dreams were called Fae. Magical creatures who disguised themselves and hid in plain sight around them for amusement in their immortal lives, who stole children and replaced them with their own immortal youth. Maybe… Maybe he wasn’t who he thought he was. The idea was quelled as fast as it had appeared, because, really, ridiculous.

He weighed the word ‘ridiculous’ against the word ‘changeling’.

He learned more about himself, and about right and wrong, and good and bad, and life and death and loyalty from those dusty books, than from anything else until he met Sherlock. Sherlock, who looked at him with too-bright eyes and knew everything about him from the way he stood and his cuff-links and the lint on his collar.

Sherlock, who didn’t care.

 _

I found god on the corner of 1st and Amistad, all alone, smoking his last cigarette

_

It was right to go to medical school, because he knew he would be wasted elsewhere, with his intelligence and common sense and memory and steady hands and nonchalance towards blood. Because he knew the difference between right and wrong better than he knew anything else, and his personal survival guide was defined by everyone he knew as a moral compass.

It was right to join the army, for Queen and for Country, because his steady hands and common sense would finally be recognized as a survival guide, in a place and situation where personal survival guides were warranted. And London reminded him of a rabbit hole, down which madness lay.

It was right to stay with Sherlock.

John has only ever done what was right, forced to do so by the voice in his head which wouldn’t let him alone if he tried to do anything else. He’d hated the army, really. It had made good, logical sense to enlist. It still did. But the colour of so much death (which was a bizarre muddy grey, rather than a plain and straightforward black) stained the inside of his retinas, all the more blinding because he could not have done anything to stop them.

No mortal man can conjure amoxicillin where there is none, to fight an infection. No mortal man can conjure morphine to ease a dying man’s last minutes.

Not even John Watson.

And Sherlock was the only thing he’d wanted to do, that was right.

 _

where were you when everything was falling apart?

_

Staying with Sherlock was right but even if it had been wrong and it had killed him and ripped him apart from the inside (because Sherlock was cruel, cruel), John would have stayed with Sherlock. Because Sherlock didn’t care one whit what he was supposed to be, or what he had been, or what he had done, or what he had thought and felt and been through. He only cared about who John was now. John liked who he was around Sherlock, who he still is. Sherlock, who despite his acerbity and sarcasm and blatant denial of PC and manners and even self preservation, brings out something more in John.

Sherlock makes him feel like a part of something bigger than himself, in a way even the army had failed to.

Harry doesn’t call until four months after he’d returned to London, which now felt like freedom and home and escape compared to Afghanistan. But Afghanistan had captured a part of his heart either way, despite the horror and sickness and pain, it was a part of him. Just as he was a part of it, with half his life-blood seeping into dry dessert sand, hidden but never erased.

He would dream of Afghanistan for the rest of his life.

His father’s been dead twelve years (thank god) but his mother doesn’t call either. He thinks it’s like survivors guilt, or something. He’s not sure. He stopped paying attention in psychology after the ‘escapism’ revelation; the first class ever in which he’d failed. Intentionally, that is. He’d needed to fail. He’d just had to, in some desperate attempt to deny that he hadn’t run and hid from his problems like a little boy, despite the fact that he had run, and he had been a little boy, and that Psychology was wrong, and stupid. Psychology, not him. Either way.

He thinks the reason she doesn’t call is that calling reminds her she failed to protect her children. She failed to protect even herself, and her honour and just. just whatever. Harry doesn’t call because she’d been a girl and it had been worse for her, for a while, because she’d been beautiful. And she felt guilty for leaving John at home, even though he didn’t really honestly blame her because he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to do any better had he been in her place.

None of them want to think about it. John hasn’t been back home since he first left when he was eighteen.

All these revelations occur when he’s past being just-drunk on something damn good, gifted to them by Mycroft in return for solving a case. John had done his level best to pretend it wasn’t a seven hundred quid bottle of whiskey they’d drowned in two hours, between just the two of them. And John’s practically a lightweight compared to Sherlock who doesn’t even look a little tipsy when they’re done. At least, John doesn’t think he looks tipsy. Sherlock’s face is moving around too much, and his vision is blurring.

He’s sure that Sherlock is reading everything on his face, undisguised. He should have bloody known better than to get drunk in front of the man who could read you like an open book on a good day, let alone at a time like this when he might actually be thinking out loud, for gods sake. He might be the fucking stupidest person alive, anywhere.

He’s just unwittingly given his true name to the Faery Prince. The only thing in his favour is that the Prince hasn’t realized it just quite yet, he realises.

 _

sometimes Sherlock looks/feels/smells/tastes like something from another world

_

He doesn’t think about his analogy until a few days later, when he and Sherlock very deliberately do not discuss what he’d said when hideously drunk.

He’s in bed, with his eyes closed because it’s fuck a.m. and he doesn’t have anything to do if he wakes up. He opens his eyes when he finally gets bored, to Sherlock’s face, just inches from his. It takes inhuman effort to not sit up straight and hit Sherlock’s forehead with his own. His second thought (feeling?) is regret that he hadn’t brushed ten minutes ago when he had the chance, because his breath probably stinks.

Sherlock’s eyes are a bizarre (read: beautiful) colour, which John can’t name, being a doctor and not an interior designer, thanks. All he knows is that they’re no colour he’s ever seen before, something between light grey-silver and purple like Sherlock’ favourite shirt. He’s reflected in them, almost perfectly, surprise comical in his face. He’s close enough to see his expression in his reflection in Sherlock’s eyes. He’s far too close, and he can’t bring himself to move.

But Sherlock doesn’t move away either. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, and no matter how much John wants to ask what the heck is going on, he won’t, for fear of unleashing his probably-bad breath on Sherlock. He thinks he might have to fix his prioritizing machine, because shouldn’t he be more concerned about Sherlock on his bed, instead?

Strangely enough, he’s not.

“You were abused by your father,” Sherlock breathes and it’s not a question, and for a split second John sees a million options in front of him, for the first time in his life, the way Sherlock probably does every single second of every single day. He could deny it, to no avail. Or he could deny it, and Sherlock could see that as a dismissal or the putting up of a wall and he’d go away. Or he could admit to it, and Sherlock could blame him for not getting help when something could have been done, and cowering like a—a victim. Or Sherlock could kiss him because he knows John knows he knows, and there’s nothing about John that Sherlock doesn’t know, whether he realises it or not, and where the fuck did that come from?

John prays Sherlock can’t read that on his face. He’s not sure he’d be able to survive the mortification.

Sherlock is still studying him. His gaze is unblinking, almost inhuman. If John tried to not blink for that long, he’s sure his eyes would be watering by now. He knows the tactic his mind is taking to distract him, and he almost allows it. But this is not the time for running and hiding, because he’s not a little boy anymore.

He knows his name, once willingly given in faith, the Faery Prince will never use to hurt him.

He nods. “Yeah, I was.”

 _

they say true loves hurts but this can’t be it (this could kill me)

_

Sherlock rocks back on his heels, and John notices he’s barefoot like the woodland creatures the Faery Prince rules. His toes are freakishly long, and unbelievably endearing.

“How old were you?” Sherlock’s questions are clinical, as if he doesn’t expect to not get an answer. John is sorely tempted to not say anything past shrugging his shoulders, just to shock him. But. But. He’s known Sherlock long enough to recognize that Sherlock’s already shocked John answered the first time. He’s got the Prince off his guard, because no sane mortal will take the risk of putting his life in the hands of someone willingly, when that someone would then have the power to make them dance for his pleasure.

John’s not sure he’s ever been sane, and decides that Sherlock deserves a little trust.

He shrugs and continues, almost entirely for the look of shock on Sherlock’s face. “Ever since I can remember. It became,” and here he takes a deep hitching breath because he’s taking a huge chance here, and he’s never actually ever told anyone about this before, and the idea makes him want to strip his clothes off and scrub himself until his skin peels off and he’s left new and clean underneath, “sexual when Harry turned sixteen. I was nine. She went out a lot.”

Sherlock looks disgusted and John closes his eyes because he should have expected this and he’s an idiot because now the best thing in his life and the person who knows him better than he knows himself doesn’t want to know him anymore. Then Sherlock exhales and it’s shuddery and warm against John’s forehead.

John thinks he understands the fairy tale when he opens his eyes.

Sherlock is furious for him, disgusted on his behalf, not at him. Never at him. The Faery Prince has his heart in a box, bigger than any human heart, kept safe, far, far away so no one can use it against him. When John gives his name to the Prince, and with it surrenders his entire being over to Sherlock, Sherlock is so stunned and touched, that his secret will be as safe as if he’d never shared it at all. He’ll give John a piece of his heart in return.

The Prince is a trickster, but not untrustworthy, and the best keeper of confidence. Like Sherlock.

The realization is enough to make him want to kiss Sherlock. And Sherlock and him seem to be on the same vibe right now, some unique wavelength of thought. Or maybe Sherlock just reads it from his face, and fulfils his desire.

Sherlock… is under his command. God.

 _

I’m back where I belong, even though I’ve never been here before

_

The kiss is not quite chaste, but not properly filthy either. John isn’t entirely sure which one he wants more, but realizes that he has all the time in the world for both, if the way Sherlock is touching him is any indication.

John’s somehow reached a sitting position and Sherlock’s weight is balanced on his knees, carefully placed alternating with John’s thighs. He’s impossibly close to John, like they’re melding into a single, shared skin. John’s not opposed to the idea, but vaguely wonders if Sherlock will fit in with him. He’ll rip at the seems, and god that’s what it feels like now. It feels like he’s too big for his skin because he’s growing and growing and his skin stays the same.

Sherlock moves just a hair closer, and leaning his chest against John’s, he no longer needs his hands for support. His left hand slides around John’s lower back, where his shirt has ridden up and lost all shape, unbelievably hot against exposed skin. His right cups around the boundary between John’s neck and hair, fingers tangling so slightly, and tilting John’s head back to deepen the kiss, and fuck, John doesn’t care about his skin anymore.

Sherlock’s gone for filthy, his tongue trailing a line along the length of the roof of his tongue, light enough to tickle, focused enough to make sparks fly behind John’s eyelids. His teeth were everywhere, nibbling on his tongue and lips, scraping against John’s own teeth and making a clicking sound that went straight to John’s cock.

In retaliation, almost, John slides one of his hands (both have been just clenched in the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt this far; too stunned to think beyond ‘oh god, don’t go anywhere, don’t you fucking move’) into Sherlock’s curls, fists and tugs ever so gently. Sherlock makes a sweet noise in the back of his throat, and John’s toes curl furiously, and he just has to hear that sound again.

Everything’s blindingly hot and intensely pleasurable, even the simple slide of John’s knuckles along Sherlock’s soft, fair face, which isn’t exactly fair now as much as it is flushed pink. John can’t help but trail kisses from behind his ear all the way down the line of his neck until his collarbone, and Sherlock has obligingly left his top button undone. John burrows his nose in the hollow of Sherlock’s neck.

And god. He smells wonderful. Like the obscenely sweet chai he likes to drink, and water from the shower he must have taken not too long ago, and the medical soap which wasn’t supposed to have a smell, and wet earth from the potted ‘experimental’ plants which have taken over their kitchen.

John can’t help but lick a stripe along Sherlock’s skin. He has to see if Sherlock tastes as good as he smells. He can feel Sherlock’s racing pulse with his tongue. He can taste sweat and water and Sherlock.

Sherlock is watching him with lazy, hooded eyes, and John gets the idea he’s somewhat dazed. Well. Good, because it would be awkward if John had been the only one affected like that.

Sherlock’s a little bit too big to cuddle in his lap, but he moves to John’s side, faster than John can think, and pushes his head under John’s hand like a cat demanding attention. John easily lets him into the loop of his arm, shuffling sideways so they can fit side-by-side on the single bed. Somehow it was like flicking a switch between the fucking hottest thing, and the most comfortable thing John had ever done, because Sherlock wasn’t demanding anything, just being.

Oh dear god.

 _

if I stumble, they’re going to eat me alive, if I tremble

_

Of course, the next, logical emotion is sheer panic, because both of them have suddenly regained the ability to think.

They’re beyond the point of, ‘oh, I’m ever so sorry, I tripped and landed with my tongue in your mouth, I hope I didn’t break anything!’. There’s no denying the way Sherlock had straddled him, or the way his fingers had pressed into John’s hips. No denying that John was breathing like he’d just run a marathon, nor the sounds Sherlock made, or the way Sherlock is looking at him.

The reason John knows Sherlock is looking at him, is because he’s looking at Sherlock, who’s doing his best to pretend he hadn’t been caught staring.

Silence.

It’s really all John can do to not kiss the rounded tip of Sherlock’s nose, or lick his cheekbones, thrown into shocking contrast by the light coming through the cracks in the curtain. It’s a physical effort to not put his hand up and touch Sherlock’s swollen lips, to not tangle his fingers deep in Sherlock’s hair and move to straddle his painfully slender hips, and kiss the man into next week.

Fuck.

 _

this is our decision, to live fast and die young

_

John wrenches his gaze away. Sherlock’s deliberately not looking at him now.

This is so utterly not good. Sherlock looks... embarrassed. About… what, exactly?

“Sherlock—”

“John—”

The cut each other off, and John gestures for Sherlock to continue, before realising that Sherlock’s mirroring his movements, like a thing he’s picked up from their time together. He cracks a grin because that seems like the only sane response to the resulting rush of emotions in his chest, pleasure and delight and affection.

“You first,” John hears himself saying, and agrees because of course Sherlock should go first. John will change himself so Sherlock will accept him. If the kiss was a mistake, he’ll accept it and take Sherlock’s friendship instead. If John speaks first, and Sherlock thought it was a mistake, everything would be screwed. Sherlock would never change like that. It’s just part of who he is, and he won’t change.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s words are simple, heartfelt and clear. John can almost see them in white print in the air above his head, Calibri font size twelve, bold. Apology.

Sherlock’s looking at him strangely. John suddenly feels the heat of arousal fade into the dull throbbing of discomfort, and maybe anger? Maybe he’s not as strong as he’d thought. Maybe he won’t be able to leave without making a scene and embarrassing himself and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. He’s not sure he has the self control to wrench himself away from the enchanting man sitting beside him for ten minutes, let alone forever, who’s looking into his eyes like he’s looking straight into John’s soul.

What would Sherlock think if he refused to move from there? John entertains a few bizarre fantasies involving super-gluing himself to Sherlock’s violin, so he’ll never get discarded. But then Sherlock wouldn’t be able to play it, and he never seemed to have a problem with severed body parts, which was a part John was sure he could play.

“What?” he eventually chokes out, trying to sound less emotional than he feels.

Sherlock looks distraught, telling him that he’s failed to bottle his emotions. “John! What’s wrong?” John feels a gentle hand on his shoulder rather than seeing it, because his eyes are apparently closed trying to keep shameful tears inside. He says nothing because his voice can’t handle it, despite the million things he wants to tell Sherlock before he leaves.

He isn’t actually stupid enough to try and stay when he isn’t wanted. Not damaged enough to be that desperate, thanks. “Oh,” comes a soft response (to what?) and John wants to put a damned paper bag over his head so Sherlock would stop reading him! Like this isn’t already cringe-inducing enough.

 _

I was in love with the place in my mind (I’m going to lose my mind)

_

The very next thing he knows is Sherlock’s lips on his own, his cool, composed fingers loosening John’s own hands which have unconsciously clenched into tight fists. cutting red crescents into his palm. They’re even gentler than Sherlock’s lips, which are covering his own, not demanding anything, and his mind is still.

He can’t take this kind of whiplash anymore. He doesn’t know what’s going on, and the emotional rollercoaster is draining.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, when Sherlock is kissing his cheekbones and nose and eyelids and forehead. It’s chaste and soothing like he can’t believe, and he feels the heat in his face receding.

Sherlock pulls away just a little, and the expression on his face is nothing John has ever seen before, tender and understanding, and compassionate? He hopes to god this isn’t Sherlock’s version of pity, because that would be even worse than being unceremoniously kicked to the curb. The Faery Prince is supposed to be decisive, and pragmatic, and strong. He’d put an injured animal to death before trying to heal it, and putting it through months of agony.

“Oh, John. You’re an idiot.”

Well, at least constants would be constants, and Sherlock would never change.

“I’m sorry that you had to go pain as a child. I don’t—” he paused, thinking. “I don’t understand it on a personal level. I’ve never been where you have, but if I could have done anything on Earth to lessen your pain, I would have done it. John Watson, you are the last person on Earth who deserves pain. I know no one better than you are. That’s why I’m sorry; because you didn’t deserve it and you still got it. I’m not very good at this, because I’ve never tried to comfort anyone before. Normally I rile them up, but—” and John understood.

Sherlock is holding his hand, and his knee is pressing very gently, very deliberately into John’s own.

“Thank you.” It was a feeling so close to absolution that it takes John by surprise, taking his breath away and making his heart race. Absolution? Why would he need forgiveness from Sherlock, who’d done nothing wrong? Or was it thankfulness that Sherlock, like he always had, didn’t care about what he had been, or had done? Or was it sheer relief that Sherlock isn’t disgusted by him for not having fought harder, or asked for help, or becoming a victim? He’s not entirely sure. He just knows that he’s feeling as relaxed now as he had when Sherlock had first cuddled into his side earlier, which is the most relaxed he’d felt in his whole life.

 _

I have you here inside my heart. I need nothing else.

_

“And us?” he dared to ask, as Sherlock took to exploring his hand in silence. Like he wanted to know the back of John’s hand better than John did. He fought to suppress the grin.

“What about us?” Sherlock asked, as if he genuinely didn’t see the question.

John squeezed his hand. “Us,” he repeated, and it was still a question.

“Nothing,” Sherlock met his eyes, head cocked to a side. “Nothing changes. I still love you. You still love me. We still need each other. Nothing changes.”

John grinned. “Thank you,” and this time he understood the feeling of absolution and gratefulness.

 _

I need nothing else.

_

 __

 _fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the formatting that's gone off. :(


End file.
